The Hanging Tree
by chessboards
Summary: To this day, a field of pink flowers grows beneath the tree, and the winds whisper of unknown names and hidden secrets, of two lovers united in death. The grass echoes of their last words, and the rippling water sings of their sadness and dreams. They form a song, you know. All these sounds combined form a single song, one that people now call The Hanging Tree. Clove and Cato AU.


**Dedicated to Emily. I'm so sorry you have to suffer from my horrid writing. I know there are many versions of The Hanging Tree, but I have not read all of them. If my story happens to mimic yours in any way, and you are uncomfortable about it, please message me, and I will put a disclaimer and credit on this story. Thank you. Feel free to point out any grammatical errors; I didn't check over this. Word count: 2,196.  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games or that quote from Lord of the Rings.**

* * *

The Hanging Tree:

* * *

"_Death is just another path, one that we all must take."_ _–Gandalf the Grey, Lord of the Rings._

* * *

"Do you think they're true?" he asks, his fingers clenching her delicate ones.

She gives him a curious look as he continues, "All those stories where two lovers get a happy ending, all those stories that end with happily ever after. Do you believe they're true? Do you think _we'll_ get a happy ending?"

"That is a hard question," she replies. "My heart wants it to be true; my heart wants us to have a happy ending, but I think there's a small part of my brain that says differently, says that our story will be painful, much like many other tales untold."

* * *

_Do _you_ believe in these stories, stories that always end with two lovers united in happiness? Perhaps this tale will change your mind._

* * *

"We need a place," he whispers. "Just for us. A place where there are no Peacekeepers or the Capitol interfering, a place where we can be ourselves."

She shakes her head sadly, long locks of brown trailing in the breeze. "There is no such place here."

"But there is," he replies urgently, holding on to that small flame of thought that seems to be slipping away, as quickly as it had come. "There is no place here, in District Two. But maybe we have to look beyond that."

She gives him a sad look, and it's obvious that she doesn't believe him; still hanging on to the world they had currently, about to crumble and fall apart completely. And he, too, knows its dangerous, knows their love is wrong, knows the consequences.

But he is willing to take the risk.

"Trust me," he whispers. "Our happily ever after might be true."

And so, with the promise of a future and new dreams, she trusts.

* * *

_Do _you _think that they will earn a happy ending, the joy they yearned so dearly?_

* * *

"Do you think they'll find us here?" she murmurs to him, hands entwined and sitting upon the branch of a great oak tree, the bark gently pricking her back as the sun makes its daily descent down to the horizon. "Do you think this is really safe?"

"Of course," he replies, casually leaning against to trunk. "This our place–our special place. No one will ever come here. Ever."

The younger girl flashes him a faint smile. "Nothing ever dampens your spirits."

The boy returns the gesture, his grin as warm as the blazing fire or the rising sun. "Forever?"

"Forever," she promises.

* * *

_The question is not whether their hearts will hold true to each other for eternity; it is whether or not there will be a forever for the two._

* * *

"You are a baker's son," she tells him one afternoon. "I am the daughter of a coal miner. Let us face the truth at long last; there is no hope of us possibly being together. It was just a wish; it was all a dream–a fool's dream."

She sees his eyes, those innocent blue eyes she adores, and she sees them fill with sadness and anger, mixtures of both dancing back and forth.

"I'm sorry," she whispers before fleeing.

* * *

_And so she leaves. But she does not abandon the hope her lover planted in her brain years and years ago, no more than a seed at the time. She does not abandon all hope of their happily ever after ending. Do_ you_ believe so?_

* * *

"What if you get reaped tomorrow? What if you die?" he asks her urgently, clinging onto her hands. "What if you're chosen for the Games?"

She looks away, tears starting to form in her eyes. "Do not speak like that," she begs.

"How many times did you enter your name?" he demands.

Biting her lip, the other responds, "Forty-three."

"You are too precious to lose. Please. Run away with me tomorrow. We can do it; I know we can. Run away into the woods together without looking back, just running and running and running. We can meet up at the tree again, just like the old times. Please, do this for me."

But she is already fleeing before his eyes, once again.

"Forever," he whispers to himself, looking at her fleeting figure, outlined against the sunset. "You promised forever."

* * *

_The promise of forever is not the question; the possibility of having one is. And while the two will forever hold true to one another, the Fates have decreed differently._

* * *

"Cato," announces the man from the Capitol. He sneers, showing his blinding white teeth. "What is your last name, boy?"

The baker's son mutters something in reply, inaudible to his audience.

"Well then, why didn't you put your name down properly?" When the boy doesn't reply, the man sneers again. "Don't know how to read and write! Ha! Well, let's congratulate our victor here, Cato, who doesn't know how to write his own surname. Oh, wait, I forgot. You aren't a victor yet, _boy."_

He spits the last word at the cringing boy, and unconsciously, her hands clench into fists.

* * *

_Will he still remember _his_ promise of forever?_

* * *

She watches the screen intently as he rips through the forest, leaving bloody marks on the leaves, glancing behind his shoulder every minute as he runs, his breath coming out in short gasps for air. She knows it's a fruitless attempt of escape, but a part of her heart wishes he could come through.

She dreams and dreams, wishes and wishes, longs for victory, for him to come home and embrace her in a hug. She yearns for the touch of his hand again, for his fingers to lace themselves around hers, for their stolen moments on the tree.

Every day while he's gone, she visits the their place, their special tree, laying a fragile, pink, flower upon the trunk.

"Come back soon," she whispers to the wind. "Come back to me."

Against all odds, he does come back. By the time he reaches the familiar soil of their homeland again, fourteen flowers rest upon the trunk, quivering in the breeze.

But even before she sees him, she knows he's changed–scarred for life by the horror of the games, jumping at the smallest noise.

"I'm sorry," he tells her when she leads him to the tree again. "I can't stay with you. I'm changed."

He brushes a strand of hair from her face.

"I can't risk hurting you if a madness overtakes me, some memories from the Games. I can't risk losing you. You were right all along; it was just a dream–a fool's dream. There is no chance of our happily ever after, our fairytale." With that, he turns and leaves her, his eyes never settling on those fourteen pale flowers.

A tear runs down her cheek. "It was a dream, but it was a good dream."

* * *

_And is it really a sin to dream–a sin to yearn for human compassion? Is it a crime to let your imagination take over? Is it truly a bad thing to dream? No matter what the Capitol thinks, these tributes are still human, sentient beings that deserve to be treated as such._

* * *

The first hallucinations come soon enough, followed by the madness.

* * *

_The death of those in the Hunger Games is a statistic, but each one of those tributes who lost their lives saving their District from the Capitol's wrath is a sacrifice, a tragedy one's family is forced to experience. There is nothing said about fairness or salvation afterwards._

* * *

"This victor here," announces the Peacekeeper to the gathering crowds. "This victor is a traitor, unworthy of life. He murdered a Peacekeeper in cold blood the night before, right after he tried to offer him a drink to good health."

Even in his frightened state, his hands curl into fists, his nails digging into his palms.

"He is to be hanged at the break of dawn tomorrow," continues the Peacekeeper. After a moment of shock and silence, he spits at the crowds. "This is what happens when one tries to defy the Capitol."

The sound of weeping issues from the district inhabitants as the Peacekeeper pushes him away. "Go now and say good-bye to your family."

* * *

_And maybe even the victor must be sacrificed in order to maintain peace._

* * *

She knows he's going to come; she can feel it in her heart as she sits on the lowest branch of their tree, fingers drumming anxiously against the bark. Finally, a shadow slips from the bushes, but it feels unpleasant and unfamiliar. In an instant, she springs from her position onto a higher branch, pressing her back against the thick trunk, hoping that her dull clothes blended in with night.

"We should hang him here," says a gruff voice. "The tree is nice and high, get a good view for the crowds."

"Yeah," responds another voice, more deep in tone. "Make the little kids squall."

The two voices laugh in sync as they fade off into the distance.

* * *

_She knows what she must do now, what is necessary to avenge his death._

* * *

She watches as he steps onto the stack of wooden stairs they made for him, watches as his bare feet slaps against the wood. At the top, there is a crate, a crate meant to be kicked away when his neck is fitted into the noose.

"I'm ready," he says. "I'm ready."

And he kicks the crate away.

* * *

_They stand in two separate worlds yet no one loses faith in their happily ever after._

* * *

"Maria Grasso," announces the escort.

Before a frightened girl appears from the crowd, she pushes her way forward, past the masses of little girls letting out sighs of relief on being spared for another year. She clenches her teeth as she passes them. No, she will not allow another girl to suffer from the injustice of the Games. After all, what is the point of winning if you cannot even be spared from further damage? Better to die sooner than late. And while you live, you suffer the consequences.

"I volunteer," she shouts. "I volunteer as tribute."

* * *

_True success requires a sacrifice, but their success is only temporary; after all, they are only pawns and pieces on a bigger chessboard, under the control of the Capitol, in an endless game of sacrifices and temporary successes without true meaning._

_But she sees the bigger picture now. She sees what true success actually means in her life, in their life._

* * *

She runs away when she tells the Peacekeepers she needs to use the restroom, telling him it was an emergency with a sweet smile.

"It'll take just a second," she promises. "I'll be back before you know it."

And during that brief time, she runs to their tree. _Their tree,_ their special place where the Capitol has no role to play, no pieces nor pawns to manipulate. She sees how ironic their promises and words are now.

She picks up the fallen crate before clambering up to the top of the wooden stairs, careful not to fall or waste any time. They must've noticed her absence by now.

She ties a noose using the rope she hid in her dress during the reaping before standing on tiptoe and lacing the rough material around a branch, right next to an identical knot. Slowly but steadily, she fastens the noose around her neck.

She takes a deep breath and looks at her lover, not a foot away.

"I'm ready," she says to his lifeless form, taking his cold hand.

And then, with a look of determination, she kicks away the crate, a single tear running down her cheek. If they found no happiness in the world of the living, why not give the world of the dead a shot?

"I'm coming. Wait for me."

* * *

_This is her success._

* * *

To this day, a field of pink flowers grows beneath the tree, and the winds whisper of unknown names and hidden secrets, of two lovers united in death. The grass echoes of their last words, and the rippling water sings of their sadness and dreams. They form a song, you know. All these sounds combined form a single song, one that people now call _The Hanging Tree._

* * *

_Do _you_ still believe in fairytale endings of happily ever after?_


End file.
